The question came to me on an ordinary afternoon, like a quiet knock on the door of my mind: If I set aside relationships, education, and achievements — what remains? Who am I, really? This was all playing on mind while I lay on the hospital bed with nothing to do, but stare at the walls and the lone window in the corner.
For so long, I’ve introduced myself by what I do and who I’m connected to. Content strategist. Digital storyteller. Founder. Daughter. Friend. Partner. Dog parent. Labels that fit neatly on a bio or a visiting card. Achievements that make sense on LinkedIn, degrees that belong on the wall.
But strip those away, and something softer, truer, almost weightless emerges.
I am the quiet curiosity that makes me pause at an old bookshop, run my fingers over cracked spines, and imagine the lives of past readers.
I am the unspoken joy of discovering a hidden dosa stall on a morning walk — and the delight of sharing that find with people I love.
I am the warmth in my chest when my Indie pup curls up beside me, the calm in my breath when I watch rain streak the window, the wonder that blooms when words fall perfectly into place on a blank page.
I am the questions that refuse to leave me: Why do we create? What makes a moment feel alive? How do stories shape us?
I am my values — kindness, honesty, curiosity, freedom — the quiet compass that guides me, even when there’s no applause, no audience.
And perhaps most importantly, I am my becoming: the private conversations I have with myself, the shifts in how I see the world, the acceptance of wounds and the courage to heal them.
There’s something liberating about knowing that even without external proof — titles, networks, milestones — there is still so much left.
A presence that senses, questions, and simply is.
That, I think, is the real story we live every day — beyond the bullet points on a CV or the curated squares on Instagram.
And maybe, just maybe, that story matters most of all… What would your answer be?
